


Attraversare

by phoebo



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Character Study, M/M, Unresolved Romantic Tension, but no really mostly angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-04
Updated: 2013-09-04
Packaged: 2017-12-25 15:41:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/954859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoebo/pseuds/phoebo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Ricardo first breathes in, his chest hurts. The air is burning in his lungs, and he has to close his eyes not to be blinded by the shining sun that's painting Malpensa in a stunning way. It's so beautiful, he thinks, and he takes it as a good sign. He's glad to be back. But.</p>
<p>( There's something about Milan that is begging him to come back. Something he left there, something that's trying to rip his chest apart, pretending to care about him, trying to bewitch him and taking him back. Milan is a mermaid, those grey and foggy streets filled with her high pitched song.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Attraversare

**Author's Note:**

> — this has probably been the hardest thing i wrote in my own life. it has so many parts of me that i'm a bit scared of publishing it. i was 13 when ricky left for the first time, and on my 17th birthday he came back in Milan. so forgive my feelings.  
> — this is set during summer 2013, and i made the events up because as far as i know ricky didn't spend it here in Italy. and cris didn't join him.  
> — [here on my tumblr](http://evitare.tumblr.com/tagged/fic%20material:%20attraversare) there are a couple of picture and fic material that inspired this fic. so yay.  
> — this is, as always, for my beautiful nana, and also for pixie and vale, two girls that bleed for this team like i do.  
> — [here](http://uk.eurosport.yahoo.com/blogs/pitchside-europe/never-ending-romance-between-kaka-ac-milan-163721636.html) you can find a really good article about the backstory of the never ending kaká/milan relationship.  
> — notes about the italian terms can be found at the end.  
> — enjoy because i really don't know what else to say about this monster???

_I'm coming home_  
I'm coming home   
tell the world I'm coming home   
let the rain wash away all the pain of yesterday   
I know my kingdom awaits and they've forgiven my mistakes   
I'm coming home, I'm coming home   
tell the world that I'm coming 

coming home — diddy

_Summer 2013_

The summer sultriness is heavy on his chest, like millions of fingers holding him back, trying to prevent him from flying away. He can't. Won't.  
His luggage makes a soft noise on the shiny airport floor. He likes it. He likes muffled sounds the most — like the voice of a man praying, the sweet humming of a mother singing to his son, the whispered words that lovers exchange in the middle of the night.

He thinks about Andriy. The way that name was murmured softly against the man's skin is something that he still dream of, like he can't really believe that his own lips where pressed against Andriy's neck mouthing that word over and over again, like a dark and desperate lullaby.  
He thought that a first love was supposed to be loud, like the roaring of San Siro on derby nights, bright like the red that pumps into his vein (he had never been so wrong).

There's something about Milan that is begging him to come back. Something he left there, something that's trying to rip his chest apart, pretending to care about him, trying to bewitch him and taking him back. Milan is a mermaid, those grey and foggy streets filled with her high pitched song.  
Milan is calling him, but he has never been ready (to face his fears (past)).

***

When Ricardo first breathes in, his chest hurts. The air is burning in his lungs, and he has to close his eyes not to be blinded by the shining sun that's painting Malpensa in a stunning way. It's so beautiful, he thinks, and he takes it as a good sign. He's glad to be back.  
But.

When Ricardo first breathes out, his chest aches.  
He's always been sure about the fact that Brazil is his home, and there's nothing he can do about the blessing feel he gets from the dust of his own country, from the words in his native language rolling on the tongue of his family -- but that's not the point. Brazil is his. Milan is not.  
It's not fair, but Ricardo has understood it and accepted it long ago. He is Milan's. He'll be a part of the city in a way the city will never be a part of him.

He's cursed, in some strange ways.  
He belongs here, he is in every little street around the grey suburbs, he left everything he had in every cafè around the Duomo. He granted his heart to the shining Madonnina, and he left it there.

***

Andriy did not left him (Andriy left Milan. Milan was not ready to lose him, but he went away. Andriy left Milan and yes, he left Ricardo there too).  
Andiy did not belong to Ricardo (but Andriy belonged to Milan, to devil red and scary black and red and black altogether -- so he kind of belonged to Ricardo too, right?), but he had Ricky and everything that Ricky had to offer.  
He had his prayers (please, Lord, make him stay -- no, I'm not being selfish, everyone needs him, this city has to keep him, he belongs there), his hope («We'll always be, right?» «Sì») and his memories.

They must be a bit lusterless by now, but there's one that's lying in the corner of his mind, lazily waiting for Ricardo to bring it back.  
The memory tastes a bit like croissant, the one that Ricky brought every morning before his training at Milanello, and a lot like spring rain.  
There's Andriy having breakfast with him in his apartment, and there's Ricky biting the croissant while looking at him fondly, and he ends up having crumbs all over his lower lip (in Sheva's eyes, he looks like a baby. Ricardo knows it, and smiles like a child just to please him. Andriy looks a lot like an older man, but maybe that's because he has the weight of more than ten thousands lives on his shoulder. He was nine when Chernobyl happened, and you could still count them in his eyes if he wasn't aware).

Andriy leans in on the table, and wipes them away with his thumb whispering his name.  
«Ricardo.»  
He doesn't call him Kakà because it doesn't fit: they are not celebrating their last goal, and the bright green of the pitch isn't all around them and the people are not singing along him. He's not a footballer, right now he's just Ricardo (Sheva isn't just a man, in the same way he's never apart from football.)  
Ricky blushes. Andriy smiles and picks his training bag up.

***

Ricardo doesn't remember what he dreams of.  
He just wakes up in the middle on the night (once twice three times a week) breathing loudly, like he was desperately trying to reach the surface, water heavy in his lungs and burning in his eyes — he must have been drowning a handful of seconds ago. The alarm clock next to his bed says it's three o'clock in the morning.  
There is something gripping his throat really tight, even now that's he's awake. He tries to swallow a couple of times but it's too much, too much too much — he closes his eyes again, letting his eyelids rest. Something is burning behind his pupils, and he starts daydreaming again.  
He can't really grasps the outline of every figure and they are just black and blurry shadows dancing all around him, hypnotizing him with their fast steps, but he's not scared. He knows he can bring the light in again if he opens his eyes. He does.

It's five o'clock, white light filters though the roll-up shutter hitting him in the eyes, making the covers on the bed look like they are painted in stripes. He's not tired anymore.  
He dresses up slowly, just a pair of jeans, a t-shirt and a just-in-case sweater, and he leaves the hotel at five and a half in the morning.

Milan is still asleep, and he savor on his tongue the privilege on walking down the street without being stopped by every person around every corner.  
He walks until he reaches the Duomo, he enters in a bar and order a croissant filled with hot chocolate. The bartender, a girl in her young age, maybe a college student with her first summer job, is really nice: she puts the croissant in a clean paper bag and smiles all the time.  
Then, as soon as he opening the door to leave, she tilts her head slightly in order to look at him from a different angle, and she says:  
«Are you—»  
«No.» says Ricky with a smile, and goes away.

The houses around Corso Vittorio Emanuele are so tall and strong that they try to block the dawn. Ricky smiles at the thought, and he finds a place to sit in Piazza Dei Mercanti.  
Here, nothing can reach him. Not even the sun. He puts on his sweater.  
He remembers hanging out there with some guys from the team — he will never forget Filippo's awkward faces when he was eating his ice cream, the way Pato was so young and naïve about everything, and how Paolo managed to smile in every picture the fans asked them.

There was Andriy, too. Of course he was there — he was always there, until he wasn't anymore.  
How can you miss something that left you behind? He doesn't miss now, he just remembers.

It's nine o'clock when he goes back to the hotel, and he feels a bit alone.

***

On the third day, he gets a phone call by Cristiano.  
It's not like he wasn't expecting it — yes, of course, Cristiano told him about a hundred times that he was going to keep him touch just to distract him from his boring existence, but he wasn't expecting this right now.  
Milan hasn't got space for Cristiano, he thinks, even if there's a hopeless hole left by someone (he kind of knows who). But Cristiano manages to fill somewhere, somehow (he doesn't know why).  
«Are you still alive?» he says like he's seriously worried about his self preservation and he's kind of surprised that he picked up.  
«Yes.» Ricardo answers, a short laugh coming from his mouth.  
Cristiano laughs with him too, and he seems a little relieved.  
«Where the hell are you?» he asks. «I checked every single tabloid in the whole word — I even read the Deportivo, for fuck's sake, and no one knows where you are. Are you running away from something?»  
«I decided to stop running away, Cristiano,» says Ricky and he kind of says it to himself and it's just a whisper, barely audible from the other side of the line. But Cristiano still manages to catch it, and he thinks about it for a moment.  
«Wait,» he says after a few seconds, and Ricardo bites his lower lips hard, «are you in Milan?»

(Cristiano knows Ricardo, and that's no secret.  
Cristiano isn't good at reading people (he can't even read himself) because that's Ricky's job, because the man has this thing he does with words that brings the words out of you, and in a matter of seconds you are in front of him spilling every secret you tried to keep for yourself for your whole life.  
But.  
Cristiano knows Ricardo because, when they first met, Ricky had decided that Cristiano should knew him. (Ricky thinks that Cristiano knows too many wrong things, and he doesn't have a clue about the most important one: hope.) But somehow, and Ricardo can't still figure out how and when, Cristiano took the lead and started to understand him.  
Now, Cristiano understands Ricky and a lot of things that Ricardo taught him without even knowing.)

Ricky sighs. «I am.»  
«I'm coming.» says Cristiano in a rush, but then he seems to rethink about it, and adds: «Should I come? Because I'm really bored and you absolutely, definitely need me and those gossip sites around there needs some new stories about me. What about a Milan scandal? That would be great.»  
Ricky smiles, and he knows that Cristiano can see him (he can always see Cristiano. Right now he's probably driving, careless about his own safety, one hand on the steering wheel and the other one on the radio, with the phone precariously settled between his neck and shoulder. He's smiling too, with that bright and pretentious grin of his.).  
«It would be great if you'd come.» I would be happy if you'd do it. He doesn't say it, because Ricky knows.  
«Great,» says Cristiano, and then he courses loudly. Then Ricky hears a loud thump, and maybe that damned phone finally fell. «Shit, sorry.» says Cristiano panting a bit, «I nearly killed an old woman. I can't cope with those slow pedestrians, God. Anyway, should I take my private jet? Is it that urgent?»  
«You don't have a private jet, Cristiano.» says Ricky.  
«I am a man full of resources, Ricardo, and you have no faith in me.»  
Ricky sighs. «You know that's not true.»  
«I'll be there tomorrow. I expect you to come and get me at the airport, I'll text you the time.»  
And then he closes the call. Ricky stares for a bit at the phone screen, when Cristiano calls him again.  
«I forgot to remind you that I'm the best friend ever. You should love me, Ricardo.» And he's gone again.  
(Not for so long, Ricky thinks, he just have to wait (and even now, it feels like Cristiano is the one waiting for him.))

***

The only explanation that Cristiano gives him about the fact that he's wearing a pair of awfully big sunglasses inside the airport is that he shines too bright and every wall reflect his glorious halo in an annoying way, so he has to keep his gorgeous eyes carefully protected. Ricardo tells him patiently that it doesn't make any sense and he shakes his head with a resigned smile on his lips, but he's suddenly glad that Cristiano is here.  
(He may be shining a bit too now.)

***

The ridiculous amount of luggages that Cristiano has brought with him includes, in order: a Gucci hand luggage that probably costs more that what's inside it, two Armani bags filled with so many clothes that Cristiano could move permanently in Milan without needing anything else, and a fourth suitcase with unidentified content.  
«It's my "whatever bag".» explains Cristiano when they are back in the hotel. He got the room next to Ricardo's one. «Every time I pack for a long trip, I always forget something really important, and when I'm too lazy to open the rest of the suitcases to put that thing in there I just throw it in this one.»  
He has a point, Ricky thinks. When he opens that particular bag -- that looks a lot like it's about to explode, actually -- he is a bit surprised about the content: a pair of white socks that looks overused, a travel guide about Milan in Portuguese, two bottles of really unhealthy blue Gatorade, a disposable camera, and another pair of sunglasses.  
«Just in case.» he says. Ricardo laughs again.  
«You don't really need a travel guide,» he points out, «you have me.»  
Cristiano raises an eyebrow. «You are a bit old, you know,» he says, «you could always forget.»  
Ricky smiles. «I could never.»  
Cristiano knows.

***

The little café is empty, and the thick air ghosts over them making them breathing a little hard.  
Cristiano takes a sip from his coffee — he ordered an espresso, but he expected his small cup to be at least nearly full.  
«Here, coffee is really different from the rest of Europe.» says Ricardo smiling towards him. «A caffé is what we call an espresso.»  
Cristiano snorts loudly. «So this is why I got two fucking drops of coffee.»  
They drink in silence, surrounded by the giggles of someone behind Ricardo that might have recognized them, and Ricardo notices that somehow Cristiano seems a little tense. He knows that pose of him — there's something that bothers him, nothing too serious to cause jitters, but relevant enough that has him tapping his fingers slightly against the table. There is a question waiting to be asked on the tip of his tongue, and Cristiano is fighting furiously to take it back. He surrenders.  
«Can I ask you something?» he says, sounding user.  
«Of course.» he says. «Why not?»  
Cristiano swallows loudly. He doesn't look at him in the eyes. «I mean, it seems rather appropriate while we are here.» he takes a deep breath, and Ricky watches him in delight. «You never told me anything about Istanbul.»  
Ricky remains silent for a few seconds. There's no epiphany in the mean time, no sudden realization of lost glory and pain, because it has been eight years. The wound is safely closed by now, the scar can't be opened again. He doesn't bleed anymore because of it.  
«In these years I had a lot of time to think about it,» he stars, and Cristiano can't take his eyes off of him, «and I slowly realized a lot of things. Istanbul— there was no miracle in Istanbul, they wrote years later. I— we went there for glory, we were full of hope and I prayed so much. They went there for love. We played, and they fought. I don't know if it makes sense, but— for me, it does.»  
Cristiano nods. «It does.» he takes the last sip from his coffee. «But you made it up for it, right? I mean, you won in Athens two years later.»  
Ricky smiles, and he says yes, we won.  
He doesn't mention the fact that he lost because something (someone) was missing. He doesn't talk about the fact that he never forgave.

***

«You look like you know every corner of this city.» says Cristiano impressed when Ricky manages to guide them through every street without even checking his phone or the little guide that he brings everywhere, keeping it in his pocket just in case.  
«I spent a lot of years here.» says Ricky matter-of-factly, smiling lightly. They walk side by side, and sometimes Ricky stops in the middle of the street to show Cristiano that house with a stunning frontage or that bookshop where he used to spend some of his rare free afternoons. Cristiano shows him the enthusiasm of a little child, but Ricardo is convinced that half of his smiles are there just to please him. He knows deep inside that this weird and childish attachment he has for Milan shouldn't really make sense — it has been so many years as he himself likes to point out, but there it is: that thin ribbon that holds him there, so fragile yet so hard to let go. He hopes that Cristiano can understand him.  
«I can almost see you,» says Cristiano again interrupting abruptly his nonsensical stream of thoughts, «young and naïve and with that tremendous haircut of yours, hanging around trying to avoid screaming girls and boys.»  
Ricardo smiles. «It reminds me of a certain person in Madrid.»  
«Do you mean Sergio?» asks Cristiano faking an innocent smile.  
«I'm talking about you, kid.» he says light hearted, as he is every time he is with Cristiano.  
Cristiano pouts a little, his eyebrows arching upwards, and he looks so different like this, a whole different person from the one posing for those magazines back in Madrid.  
He opens his mouth to says something back, but he is stooped by a scream from the other side of the road.  
«Oh my God!» says a female voice, and suddenly Ricky is smiling with teeth and his whole face is shining. Cristiano, to say the least, is a bit frightened.  
«You are Kaká!» says the girl and she looks like she's about to cry. She must be twenty years old or something, and she breathes hard in a really funny way.  
«Can I— can I take a picture with you?» she says with her tentative accent, and yes, ok, Cristiano is a bit disappointed that she doesn't want a picture with him too. But then the girl smiles towards him. «I can't — I can't believe you two are here.»  
They hold her phone tight in front of them, trying to figure out how to fit together in the picture, and Cristiano ends with his face cut in half and the girl's face is pretty amusing, but the way Ricardo smiles, relaxed and at ease, makes something move in Cristiano's chest. He can't help but smile back.  
«We miss you.» the girl says when she's about to leave. And then she switch to Italian, so Cristiano doesn't really get what she's saying.  
« _Vogliamo tutti che tu torni a casa_.» she says, and suddenly Ricardo doesn't smile anymore. The girl blushes and walks away.

Ricardo doesn't speak for a long time, and Cristiano leaves him the space he thinks he needs. He doesn't ask for the translation of her words, but he tries so hard to repeat them in his mind and tastes their sound, recognizing a bit of nostalgia in there. He gets it, though, but he doesn't want to bring them back to Ricardo.  
He just smiles and starts talking about how annoying Iker is getting every time someone mentions Diego López or Victor Valdés, and he hopes it fades away. It does, for a bit, or maybe Ricky is just as good as him at pretending that everything is all right.

***

«I do need to take a shower.» Cristiano says loudly in the hall of the hotel (he obviously rented a room next to Ricky's one, because he thought it would be cute). It's half past ten, and they are back from a simple dinner in a lovely Italian restaurant, where the young waitress kept giggling in front of them.  
«You don't need to ask my permission.» says Ricardo without eve thinking.  
Cristiano suddenly stops, and he turns towards him dramatically. He arches his left eyebrow.  
«When did you become so cheeky?» he asks like he's really concerned. «Jesus Christ, this sultriness has messed up with your brain.»  
Ricardo doesn't flinch. «Don't be blasphemous.»  
Cristiano grins. «Now I recognize you.» he says. «Just let me change my clothes and then I'm going to teach you something about real movie culture.» He stops strategically, and then adds. «I brought DVDs.»  
Ricardo lets out a strangled moan and he sees clearly the end of his glorious days in front of him.

It turns out that the huge television in Ricardo's room doesn't have a DVD player, and Cristiano lies on the carpet with his back resting on the side of the king-sized bed covering his face with his arms and nearly sobbing. «I can't stand the fact that we can't watch anything, for fuck's sake.»  
Ricardo bites his tongue at the curse, but replies politely. «Hand me the controller, please.»  
Cristiano throws it behind him with an annoyed sound, and Ricardo zaps within the Italian channels. He looks good with his glasses on, the soft lines of his face made sharper by them. He looks — different, kind of. Younger, maybe. Definitely not smarter. Cris can't really decide.  
He glances at the alarm clock on the bedside table, and it's half past eleven. They have been walking all day long and yeah, he's a bit tired. He leaves the TV screen fixed on a romantic comedy that he can't name and locks himself in the bathroom. He washes his face, brushes is teeth and wears a clean and white t-shirt. He lets the water clean him, and for a moment he manages to empty his head from everything he has been thinking these days (which is definitely a lot, by the way.)  
When he goes back to his bed, Cristiano is sprawled all over the covers with his limbs hanging off of the edge. He is snoring a bit and Ricky smiles at the thought that he managed to fell asleep in five minutes. He walks toward him and pokes his shoulder lightly. «Cris?» he whispers, «go to bed.»  
Cris makes a muffled sound. «Come on,» Ricky laughs softly, «I can't carry you. You have to stand up.» Cris murmurs something into the pillow. «I can't hear you.» Ricky points out.  
«I'm stain'.» Cristiano tries to say more clearly, and then he closes his eyes again.  
Ricky rolls his eyes and sits on the bed, staring and the body in front of him. He decided, his mind hazed, that he doesn't really have the strength to kick him out.  
He adjust his body so all their asymmetries somehow fit together, hands barely touching skin and legs tangled upon each other, crossing physical (and mental) boundaries he didn't know that existed.  
That night, he doesn't dream. Everything, for once, is really really quite.

Except when it's not.

He wakes up in the middle of the night and Cristiano is laying right by his side, his eyes wide open and his mouth slightly parted. Ricardo doesn't remember a thing he did.  
«Ricky, are you ok?» he whispers, careful not so make any loud noise. «You were… I don't know, talking in your sleep. You seemed in pain.»  
Ricardo doesn't answer straight away, trying to regain control on his own breath. He closes his eyes once, twice, and then he stares at the wall in front of him.  
«What was I saying?» he asks, his voice barely audible in the quiet and dark room. Cristiano bites his lower lip, lowering his eyes.  
«Cris. I need to know.»  
Cristiano sighs and then, «you were calling Andriy's name.»  
Ricardo blushes slightly and he's grateful that Cristiano can't really see him, and he remains silent. Cristiano fidgets for a couple of seconds and then he stands up, deciding that this might be the right moment to leave. But Ricky apparently doesn't agree with him, because he brushes slightly his fingers with his own.  
«You don't have to leave.» he says.  
Cristiano smiles. «No, it's all right. I'm sorry if I fell asleep on your bed, you need to catch some real sleep.»  
Ricardo shakes his head. «I can tell you the whole story if you like.» he says, and he's meaning it in a deep and powerful way that makes Cris' knees buckle a little.  
«No, Ricky, it's okay, I don't need to—» but Ricardo interrupts him again squeezing his fingers lightly.  
«Stay.» he says, and Cristiano nods while he sits on the bed, the muscles of his back tense and hard.  
Then Ricardo starts his story.

_The important thing of this story is that it is not a love story. It's about football, and even if football often copes with love and greatness and victory, this time it's a bit different._  
Well, of course, victory and greatness must be the beginning of it.  
Because Andriy is a fighter and he seeks for glory and power and immortality, and the first time he sees Ricky's lips he immediately gets it: it will all come from that wonderful mouth, too often bruised with preach and grateful smiles.  
So he goes for it, he sets a trap without even realizing it, and Ricky falls. He falls so hard that he can clearly see the moment he will hit the ground breaking all his bones, and he secretly hopes that his Lord will have mercy and will let him die.  
Ricky doesn't know what he's doing, except when he does. It's wrong at first, and he surrenders next. He should be frightened by that, but he doesn't really ask himself that kind of questions.  
But then, Andriy leaves. And Ricky is broken, lost, empty, and he can't properly function again.  
Why, he asks his Lord at nights, why? Did I deserved this?  
He doesn't ask Andriy. He doesn't dare, he's scared of what the answer might be.  
He asks his God again because no one answers him back, and he's free of trying to understand why all by himself.  
Was I a sinner? Forgive me, forgive. 

Cristiano finally puts everything together, and he feels so stupid. He was clueless before, but now it's like he always knew.  
He realizes he might be in love. He's not scared, just cautious, but when he indulges far too much with his hand on Ricky's thigh he thinks he might see hope.

***

It's dark and Ricardo can hardly see the shape of Cristiano's body in the big room, filled with their heavy breathing and the sound of their feet on the carpet. Cristiano takes a step in his his direction without making a noise, leaving his shoes next to the door and tiptoeing on the soft floor. He looks at him, his lips slightly parted and a bit chapped, but he doesn't come any closer. He waits. Ricardo can't even think straight, his brain works slowly and everything is blurred and dense, like the air around him and the light that comes from the lamps down in the streets. He brings a hand to Cristiano's cheek and he leaves it there, heavy and solid and hot. The skin beneath his palm is burning.

Cristiano finally looks straight in his eyes and he sees a strange light, and there is very little space between them, there is room for regret and hesitation and Cristiano is scared. He desperately looks for a sign in the other man's eyes, and he is so lost that the has to grab the hand on his face to keep himself from falling. He leans in but he stops again, and Ricky presses his fingertips harder into the soft skin, praying in silence please, please, _pleasepleaseplease_ I can't do this and he tries to close his eyes but they are burning again, like they do when he wakes up in the middle of the night, and finally finally Cristiano presses his lips against his.

The kiss is hungry and full of teeth and claiming and there are going to be bruises tomorrow, and Ricky moves his hand to the back of Cristiano's neck in a soft and light way that contrasts with the anger that guides his lips. Cristiano pins him against the wall and in a matter of seconds his hands — how can they be so cold? — are inside Ricky's shirt, pressing his fingers on his hips. He's in a rush and he can't really stop moving his body, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt and ripping them when he can't manage to open it. He grips the border of Ricky's trousers and then he stops, breaking the kiss and resting his forehead against Ricky's one. His lips are red and wet and he's breathless, and his whole body is pressed hard all over the other man's limbs. The blood is roaring in his ears and he can't hear a word of what Ricky is saying — he sounds like he's praying, but this time he's not addressing God. «Please», Ricardo says again, his own voice broken. Cristiano doesn't hear it (again) but he imagines it, so he drags them on the bed with a loud thump. He takes his trousers off in a clumsy way, tossing them on the floor and leaving his underwear on. He helps Ricky with his own, impatient to feel his skin against his.

He imagined this a lot of times. Alone in his bed in Madrid, after a game, after a night out, without a body bringing heat and company for the night. He thought about making Ricardo his in ways he never had him, tearing him apart with shaking legs and raggedy breath, bringing him to tears and making him feel perfect like he's supposed to feel every day, but he was so wrong about it. He couldn't understand.

This is-- this is different in a way it wasn't supposed to be. He's the one who begs now, trying to catch a glimpse of skin under his hands, unable to pronounce a word that isn't Ricardo, Ricardo _Ricardorickyplease_ , like a slow mantra. Ricardo is naked now and he is too and he didn't even notice, his limbs sprawled all over the covers and his hair messy covering his eyes. Cristiano moves them slowly, staring at him with a face that is most definitely showing too much of what lies inside him.

He maps the lines of Ricky's chest with his thumb, tracing the outline of his now very much hard cock. He smiles for a fraction if seconds, proud of himself. Ricardo is beautiful like this (he always is). He brings two fingers inside himself but he can't wait, he's more than eager and ready to go on, so he moves them fast while he savor the blissful look on Ricky's face, biting his lips with expectation.

And then Ricky does it again-- he puts his palm on Cristiano's cheek, pressing his thumb hard on his bone back and forth. Cris stops, and takes it as a signal to go on. He wipes his fingers on the covers and then oh so slowly guides Ricky's cock inside him. They both moan at the same time, Ricky arching his hole body beneath him. Cristiano tosses his head backwards with his eyes closed, and Ricky doesn't moves his hand. He links his other one's fingers with Cristiano's instead, gripping hard and holding onto it like his life depends on it. Cristiano rides him slowly , letting the waves of pleasure roll through his chest, his heart pounding fast and his blood running furiously in his veins.

Ricardo can't close his eyes. They are still burning somehow, but the feeling has changed now-- it must be because of the body moving over him. Cristiano is still hidden by the dark, but Ricky doesn't need the sunlight to recognize the shape of his body. He memorized them long ago, and now he just has to trace them again with his fingers and not with his memory. The moonlight makes Cris' skin white, and he looks like porcelane. He doesn't want to break it.

They hit the climax seconds apart from each other, and Cristiano falls clumsily on Ricky. Their forehead are pressed together, their lips are barely touching. Ricky covers the distance that separates them and presses a hard kiss on Cris' mouth (Cristiano absently notes that this is actually the first time Ricardo kissed him.) He rolls next to him slowly, and presses his head on the other one's chest. Ricky's heart is still pounding fast, and Cristiano falls asleep lulled by his own breath.

***

His hand fits perfectly between his shoulder blades, and he presses his fingertips hard on the soft skin in order to leave a mark, to make him remember. Cristiano is always scared of not being enough, and he tries so hard to be perfect that it almost scares Ricky. Cristiano bites his collarbones, not bothering to cover his teeth. Ricardo moans and the sound echoes in the dark, but Cristiano can feel that he's still tense under his palm. He pushes him hard on the bed, pressing his hands on his hips where he can almost feel an of his bones.  
He looks at him with dark eyes and Ricky is staring at the ceiling, panting hard, his hair messy on the pillow. He must feel Cris' look on him because he glance at him, swallowing and biting his bottom lip until it turns white.  
The something changes inside of Cristiano and Ricky sees it, because the line of his eyebrows softens a little and his lips part slightly. He presses a hand on Ricky's stomach, careful not to hurt him, and aligns his face with his: he leaves their foreheads detached, brushing every now and then, and his voice is shaking a little.  
«Don't miss him.» he says, and it sounds like one those psalms that Ricky reads in the middle of the night.  
Ricky smiles and he carefully doesn't show any trace of nostalgia, tracing lines on Cristiano's jaw with a finger.  
«I don't.»  
It feels like a promise, and to Cristiano it feels like a lullaby.

***

Summer is over, and they are in Madrid.  
It doesn't happen again, that thing they did in Milan, but it doesn't feel so bad. It's like something cleared between them, like someone breathed on a glass and then pressed his hand on it to make them finally see.  
It's good, but it scares Cristiano. It scares Ricky too. And Cris can't seem to ignore that facesRicky does now, like he's missing something again. He thinks again, don't. Ricky doesn't answer (Cris never asked that out loud except that one time), but he looks down, and it's his way of saying I can't.

***

Everything is about coming and going, and this is football (and this is life too, and it may be the beginning of some bad metaphor about this game and life per se, and Cristiano hates this kind of things), so Cris is used to people leaving him. He registers the fact, he misses, and sometimes he even gets over it.

But that's not the case, right? This is Ricky. Ricky has always been the exception. Ricky has always been his exception, from the start until— he can't even say the world.  
He figures this might be the end. His stomach is tight around itself, and he swallows hard.

When Ricky goes back to Milan, back for good now, back to play and to avoid benches and to play in his colours, his red and his black, with the fans cheering his name and "siamo venuti fin qua, siamo venuti fin qua", his stadium, his home. He doesn't know if Ricky has still got his old apartment there, but he think he won't have any problems in finding one.

They call the italian fans "the Kaká orphans", but no one is thinking about the Madrid orphans. No one is thinking about him.  
But then— Ricky is smiling, and he's at the airport, and they are hugging and it won't be their last time, they will meet again, maybe in Milan or in Madrid or maybe somewhere in the middle of the world cup— but they are going to part.

If you love someone, let him go, someone said once.  
Ricky seems full again. He smiles brighter. He's already red on his cheek, like the shirt he's going to wear soon, and Cris can't help to smile back too.  
«We'll meet again.» says Ricky while they are talking.  
«Of course», answers Cris, laughing a little, «you won't get rid of me that easily.»  
Ricky smiles shyly, looking at the ground.  
«This is not a goodbye.» he says.  
«I know.»  
Ricky touches his cheek with one hand, tracing the outline of his bone with his thumb, like he did that night. It feels like ages ago.  
He breathes. I love you, he would like to say. He doesn't.  
Cris relaxes into his touch. He breaths too, mirroring his look. I know, he replies in his head, I do too.

***

Ricky is on the field again. The tunnel of San Siro is exactly as he remembers, familiar like the back of his pockets. He's not nervous, and he caresses the captain armband resting on his arm. His shirt, gold and red and black, is somehow shining. He's waiting.  
He misses someone by his side, someone different this time, but he doesn't mind. It was not a goodbye, he remembers. He smiles, and then he enters the stadium.  
San Siro roars, screams his name and he looks around and everything is clear again, and he thinks: this is what I wanted, this is what I deserved, this is where I belong.

He's home.

**Author's Note:**

> — "Attraversare" is an italian verb and it can be roughly translated with "to cross", "to pass through".  
> — "Vogliamo tutti che tu torni a casa." it means "we all want you to come back home".  
> — and yes, Ricky speaks fluent Italian with an accent to die for.


End file.
